𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐈𝐋𝐈.

❝  Aw,  you  getting  all  poetic  on  me  now,  Verg—  ❞  Dante  huffed  out  a  low  laugh,  a  crooked  smirk  pulling  at  his  lips  as  he  kicked  his  boots  off  the  desk  and  pushed  himself  up.  The  words  didn’t  quite  land  straight  away  —  not  properly  —  but  they  stuck  somewhere,  lingering  longer  than  he’d  like  to  admit.  His  gaze  settled  on  his  brother  as  he  stepped  closer,  rolling  one  shoulder  loose  like  he  could  shrug  it  off.

 ❝   We’ve  both  seen  some  pretty  ugly  things  in  the  dark,  ❞   he  went  on,  tone  lighter,  teasing  on  the  surface,  but  not  without  weight.  Years  of  it.  Too  many  to  count.  He  didn’t  need  to  spell  that  part  out.  He  reached  out,  clapping  a  hand  against  Vergil’s  shoulder  —  solid,  grounding.

   ❝    But  hey—  ❞   his  head  tilted  slightly,  grin  sharpening  just  a  touch,    ❝…maybe  this  whole  ‘beauty  in  darkness’  thing’s  just  you  putting  a  nicer  label  on  it.❞  A  beat  passed.  He  didn’t  move  his  hand  right  away.

   ❝    World’s  still  a  mess.  Always  is.   ❞     his  voice  dipped  just  a  fraction,  quieter,  less  show  this  time,    ❝  but  we’re  still  here.  Still  standing.  Still  kicking  the  hell  outta  anything  that  crawls  out  of  it.   ❞     For  a  second,  his  gaze  shifted  —  not  quite  on  Vergil,  not  quite  anywhere  else  —  like  something  crossed  his  mind  he  wasn’t  planning  on  sharing.  Then  it  was  gone.

The  smirk  came  back,  easy,  familiar.

 ❝    So  yeah…  if  that’s  what  you’re  calling  ‘beauty’?   ❞   he  gave  his  shoulder  a  light  shove,  stepping  back  like  none  of  that  meant  anything  at  all,    ❝   guess  I’ll  take  it.   ❞   A  small  pause.

... UNLESS DANTE'S RUNNING HIS MOUTH. He's not sure when his brother became so predictable, or if it was simply a truth of his character upheld through tireless trials and tribulations over the course of decades. Decades, he thinks idly as Dante lays a hand on his shoulder; slaps, rather, in a way unbefitting the moment, but Vergil feels he need not re-iterate his own thoughts. The air in the room felt still, as if the walls of Devil May Cry were holding their breath, sensing the weight of something Dante seemed eager to gloss over.

So many things they haven't talked about, and the rare opportunity offered to do so swept away. He feels the squeeze to his shoulder and watches from his periphery as his brother's hand slips away. Such a waste, truly. "You try my patience." A simple statement he feels must be leant to the moment as a sort of chastisement. The mood to allow for them to address any one of the many elephants in the room is rare... and has passed as quickly as irritation has risen in response to his Dante's dismissal.

The heels of his boots are a stark sound against the wooden floorboards as he crosses the room to one of their cork boards, arms folding over his chest as pale eyes sweep the printed maps and photographs. Stalled, he's actively fighting the urge to walk out. Nero's been yelling at him about self-isolation for well over a year now, but life-long habits die hard. An image flickers in his mind; of a boy in a tree, leg swinging with a book in his lap as the summer breeze brushes through silver hair — the low buzz of cicadas.

❝ Stop pretending that you care about me. ❞ @vergili

"Aw, c’mon, Vergil! What, you expected me to break into a heartfelt speech? We’ve both been too busy with our own battles to hug it out. But hey, it’s not like I’ve forgotten about you. I mean, I’ve been around, even if you’ve been MIA for years. Just don’t expect me to get all mushy about it—Can’t get all sentimental when we've got so many hellspawn to take down!"

𝑯𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒑𝒔, 𝒎𝒊𝒅-𝒑𝒂𝒄𝒆, whipping around to stare at his brother in staunch defiance; in the absence of his coat, the effect is dulled if not for the way his lips draw back in a snarl that is no less agitated than a lion's teeth bared for slaughter. Since their return to the surface he's yet to have a single moment of silent, independent, peace. And while there are things to be grateful for, he feels... out of place doesn't even begin to describe the dissociative drawback of each moment as it passes by. Vergil is no fool -- he does not belong here, never has, and he very well knows it.

He and Dante have always been at odds. That may never change. Their time together in Hell didn't quite change that; though, it gave him a growing understanding of... what could have been, perhaps. Regardless, staring into blue eyes that never quite mimicked a mirror despite best efforts, he's reminded -- again -- that they will never truly see eye to eye. The recent cuts across his face from their most recent escapade ache, ever so subtly, beneath his skin. "You--"

Vergil retreats and Dante wants nothing more than to grab him by the ankle and drag him back. He won't tolerate his brother's insistence on pulling away from him. He's done it his whole life, always with one foot out the door, bags packed and ready to disappear at a moment's notice. He's learned, however; after their stint in Hell that he has to be careful. He lets Vergil pull away, but makes no move to leave his position on the bed, legs crossed absent-mindedly, hand resting at his chest as he watches Vergil rage.

It makes his stomach turn. This isn't a hurt that Dante can smooth over with a smack to the back of the head, or a brush of the shoulders, or even a jab and a roll of the eyes. The inhuman growl emanating from Vergil isn't something unfamiliar in its own right, even if it calls to something deep within his own chest. There is a rumble in response, instinctual and unbidden. He recognizes the warning for what it is, but as always, elects to ignore it. Vergil has no desire to hurt him, Dante knows this. Whatever filled his brother's rest has come to drive a wedge between them. Damn him for being so fucking self-sabotaging. Dante scoots over a fraction further, invading his space without grabbing him again. He can feel the heat radiating from him, and the smell of sweat from his night terrors mixing with a hint of mint. His brother is familiar, and yet the way Vergil stares is as though he sits beside a stranger. His stomach lurches. He's seen this before, he reminds himself. In Hell. It will pass.

It does. Slowly.

𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐔𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐎𝐅 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐍 𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐋; and while it would usually only serve to further irritate him, his present exhaustion has his jaw clicking shut, and his silver brow furrowing. the sweat cooling at his back is, in one word, disgusting ––– and it causes the cotton of his shirt to stick to his skin uncomfortably as it slowly chills against his spine. loosening his grip around his wrist, he allows his hands to finally fall to either side of his hips, nails lightly scratching the sheets as his hands flex against the mattress. the rock of dante's foot catches his attention, eyes snapping to the movement before his brother launches into an innocuous tangent. vergil's jaw ticks at the corner, teeth clenching; a half baked attempt to listen despite knowing it will only make him irate, or give him the sudden urge to enact fratricidal violence. neither would be all too helpful, even if the latter might make him feel minutely better.

the weary headboard at his back provides support, despite its inability to do so against his weight until it presses against the wall with a pathetic creak. his eyes flutter closed as dante rambles, focusing instead on his breathing: in, out, repeat. steadfast, it's something he clings to as his once rapid heartbeat evens; adrenaline still flooding his lungs, pressing against his ribs even as he seeks to let it fall away slowly.

eyes snapping open once more, he catches sight of dante's impression on the tail end of his words; and the furrow in his brow deepens before his gaze sweeps the room to instead catch sight of the yamato, the light from the hallway glinting off the ornate metalwork of her tsuba. his shoulders fall inch by tremulous inch as relief washes over his mind; as his fingers flex at his sides, feeling suddenly, agonizingly empty. it is a feeling that lingers in the back of his mind, he knows. day in, day out.    ❛ i do not know, ❜    he states simply; tone flat with little remorse and no room for inquiry into such matters. such things had been... accounted for, rather than truly discussed, during their time beneath the surface, no matter their bickering. he had no desire to dwell on such things.